Bones: Buried Deep

by Max Allan Collins

  “Yeah. Playing at being one.”

  “Right,” Dr. Wu said. “And now we’re pretty sure you can double your total.”

  “Four sources?” Booth asked, goggling at the display of bones. “We have potentially four victims here?”

  Brennan raised a cautionary palm. “We won’t know for sure until we get the results of more tests….”

  Dr. Wu completed the thought: “But the preliminary evidence has us leaning that way.”

  The two women exchanged glances and nods.

  Surprised, Booth said, “Bones, you don’t ‘lean.’ You’re all about empirical evidence. If you can’t prove it, you don’t believe it.”

  Brennan said, “I knew you would want as much as we could give you… so I’m pushing the envelope a little.”

  He just stared at her.

  She gestured toward the skeletal remains. “Here — look at the vertebrae.”

  Booth leaned in. “The spine?”

  “Most of it,” Brennan said. “The top seven are the cervical vertebrae, next twelve are the thoracic vertebrae, and then there are five lumbar vertebrae above the sacrum and coccyx.”

  “Okay,” Booth said, not knowing where she was going with this anatomy lesson.

  “For the time being, ignore the lumbar vertebrae on down.”

  No problem, he thought. He had been ignoring most of this stuff since college. Including college….

  “The seven cervical vertebrae,” Brennan was saying, “are all from the same body.”

  “At least we think they are,” Dr. Wu put in.

  “Yes,” Brennan said, and her head tilted to one side and the palm came up again. “Pending further tests.… But they fit together as if they belong together — you understand?”

  He shrugged.

  “The wear patterns are consistent within those seven bones. They fit together as if they’ve been working together for a long time.”

  Booth considered that. “Like a nut and bolt that have been together for years?”

  Dr. Wu said, “Exactly. You put on a new nut and it doesn’t tighten down exactly the same… but if you put the old one back on, voilà, fits perfectly.”

  He nodded and the Field expert smiled at him again.

  They really seemed to be hitting it off. Was she flirting with him? Guys were supposed to know when women were flirting, but Booth could never really sort through the signals.

  Tessa, a lawyer he had been seeing, practically threw herself at him before he figured it out. Coming out of his little reverie, he noticed Brennan smirking at him.

  “What?” he asked defensively.

  “Nothing,” she said, in that tone that always meant “nothing” was something. “Are you listening?”

  “Of course I’m listening!”

  Brennan returned her attention to the skeleton, pointing as she spoke. “What is true of the cervical vertebrae is true of the twelve thoracic vertebrae as well. They fit together like they belong… and again, the wear patterns seem consistent with them coming from the same body.”

  “Hold on,” Booth said. “The cervicals and thoracics came from the same body?”

  Brennan said, “Yes and no. The cervical vertebrae are all from one body; and the thoracic vertebrae are from one body — they just happen to be two different bodies.”

  “Does your head hurt? My head hurts.”

  “I feel fine,” Brennan said.

  A concerned Dr. Wu asked Booth, “Would you like some aspirin?”

  Booth waved that off, bobbing his head toward the skeletal “corpse” and saying, “Cervical from one, thoracic from the other. And neither of them are from the other two?”

  Brennan nodded. “Wear on the thoracic vertebrae shows that the person they belong to had something wrong with one of his legs — causing the vertebrae to wear unevenly and in a way that is not normal.”

  Brennan pointed to the worn areas.

  “See these edges?” she asked. “They should have worn more evenly. Although the intervertebral disks are gone, you can see where they were worn down, and the surfaces of the vertebrae started rubbing against each other. Whatever was wrong with his leg caused him to hurt his back and any movement — especially walking — would have been extremely painful.”

  “What was wrong with his leg?” Booth asked.

  Dr. Wu said, “Could have been any number of things.”

  “For instance?”

  “Slipped femoral epiphysis would have done the trick.”

  “Slipped what?” Booth said.

  Brennan pointed to the ends of the femora. “Remember when we told you about the epiphysis sutures closing to show age?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, this is the same area — the epiphysial cap on the femoral head.” Brennan pointed. “If the epiphysis slips out, the leg will rotate laterally.”

  She turned the femur away from the body.

  “The foot would have been turned out,” she continued. “Walking would have put torque and stress on the spine.”

  Dr. Wu said, “The leg could have been broken and not set — could’ve been torture, or a birth defect that was never dealt with… lots of possible explanations.”

  “Bottom line?” Booth asked.

  “Bottom line,” Dr. Wu said, “is both of these femora are healthy… and if that’s what caused the wear on the spine, then the thoracic vertebrae could not possibly have come from this skeleton.”

  “Okay,” Booth said, and heaved his biggest sigh of the day — so far. “Then we’ve got at least three victims.”

  Brennan said, “The cervical vertebrae come from a body that was dead for a lot longer than either femur… and probably longer than the thoracic vertebrae as well. Though, of course, we—”

  “Need more tests,” Booth interrupted.

  “That’s right.”

  Booth gestured toward the skeleton again. “What about the cervical vertebrae?”

  “First,” Brennan said, in a little too teacherly a way for Booth’s taste, “you need to understand that skeletal decomposition can be broken down into rough stages.”

  “All right,” Booth said.

  “In the first stage, the bones are greasy and decomposed tissue remains.” She pointed, demonstrating. “That’s what most of these bones are.”

  “Got it.”

  “In the next stage, the bones still retain some mummified or putrefied tissue, but covering less than half of the skeleton.”

  He nodded.

  “In stage three the bones have lost all tissue and some organic components, but may retain a slight greasiness. The thoracic vertebrae and some of the foot bones indicate this. The bones are completely dry by stage four; the cervical vertebrae have signs of this stage and the next, which is when the bones are dry with bleaching and exfoliation. In the sixth stage, the dry bones show increased deterioration with metaphyseal loss and cancellous exposure; but we don’t have any bones that are that far gone.”

  “So,” Booth asked, “the cervical vertebrae are the oldest?”

  “Yes,” Brennan said. “I’d say this victim has been dead for as long as…” She glanced at Dr. Wu, who nodded. “… forty years.”

  Booth whistled. “Back in the sixties?”

  “Possible. Very possible.”

  “Is it also possible that someone used real bones but faked all this — you know, doctored these things — just to screw with us?”

  Shaking her head, Dr. Wu said, “I think we’ve eliminated that — you’ve got bones here that would not just be lying around. Forty-year-old cervical vertebrae are not like finding an Indian arrowhead in a state park.”

  Her cell phone rang and Dr. Wu said, “Excuse me.”

  She took the phone off her belt, touched a button, and said, “Jane Wu.” She listened for a few seconds, said, “I’ll be right there,” and clicked off.

  “I’m sorry,” she said to Brennan. “Crisis upstairs. Be back as soon as I can.”

  Brennan and Booth both no
dded and Dr. Wu left, Booth watching the attractive way she walked as she went.

  Turning his attention back to Brennan — who was smirking at him again — he said, “So, you two are saying I’ve got a serial killer who has been at it for forty years?”

  “I know it sounds far-fetched,” Brennan said, all business. “But that’s where the evidence is leading us.”

  A geriatric killer?

  The killer taunting Booth would have to be, what? Sixty years old, at least?

  Booth’s stomach knotted. This was not going to go over well with his boss.

  Brennan said, “The note indicated this…” She gestured toward the table of remains. “… was a goodbye gesture of sorts. So we shouldn’t be surprised. Right?”

  “You mentioned more tests,” Booth said, ignoring the question. “What’s that involve?”

  “Taking the remains to the Jeffersonian so my staff can do DNA, track the dental records… assuming the skull is from the same person, which it might be. And we’ll have Angela do a holographic reconstruction.” She smiled at him. “You know, ‘squint’ stuff.”

  “How long will that take?” he asked, blowing past her friendly dig.

  “Going to take a while,” she admitted. “But the sooner we get going, the better.”

  “We?” he asked, afraid he knew where this was heading. “You don’t mean you and me, do you?”

  “No,” she retorted. “The skeleton and me… That ‘we.’ The sooner we get going to Washington, the sooner I can call you with the results.”

  “You’re… going back?”

  She nodded. “Sure, why not? You don’t need me here. The work is the skeleton, and the skeleton needs to be in DC.”

  Though he could not say why, Booth suddenly felt uneasy, and queasy. They were in this together. They were… God, he wasn’t going to admit it to himself was he?… a team.

  “You just got here,” he said, knowing it sounded lame even before the words tumbled out.

  She eyed him with sublime condescension. “And it’s been wonderful… but I need to go where the work takes me.”

  “Yeah,” he said, lowering his head. “You’re right, of course.”

  Brennan jerked a thumb toward the table of bones. “When Dr. Wu gets back, we’ll package up the remains and I’ll be ready to go.”

  He nodded.

  “Think you can book me a flight on such short notice?”

  Hauling out his cell phone, he said, “I’ll get someone at my office right on it.”

  “Good. Thanks.”

  “You know me, Bones. Whatever you need.”

  Five minutes later, he had explained the problem to one of the agents in his office, who was working on it. He dropped the phone back in his pocket and waited for the call.

  He looked over at Brennan, who was already packaging up the bones of the feet, packing them carefully in cotton and placing them in a cardboard box that would be her carry-on when she got to the airport.

  Booth wondered why he felt the need for her to stay. They had no personal life together at all; they were, for the most part, oil and water — calling them “friendly” would be a stretch, though “friends” somehow wasn’t.

  So, what the hell was the problem?

  He shook his head, forcing the thoughts away.

  The problem was a serial killer — a geezer of a one, perhaps — but a serial killer nonetheless, and by definition dangerous as hell.

  If Bones was right, this was a fiend who had not been caught in the course of a forty-year career in which he (or possibly she) had killed at least four people and probably a lot more.

  Dr. Wu returned and Booth watched as the two scientists finished prepping and packing the remains.

  They had just finished when Booth’s cell phone chirped. The agent on the line gave him Brennan’s travel information.

  “Got you on a United flight leaving at nine,” Booth told her.

  Brennan glanced at her watch. “That should be fine — thanks. I need you to stop by the hotel to pick up my bag, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Booth’s intention had been to call a car for her and get back to work; but she had obviously made the judgment that Booth was her ride to the airport, and he decided now was not the time to rock that particular boat.

  He simply nodded and Brennan went back to talking to Dr. Wu.

  Least you can do, he told himself.

  After all, he had dragged her to Chicago and had not been on hand to meet her when she arrived. He’d better see her off, or there would be hell to pay at some point.

  Women never forgot things like that, in Booth’s experience, and men usually didn’t even know they were supposed to remember them.

  But Booth knew this much: Brennan was helping him, and he needed to reciprocate, out of professional courtesy, if nothing else.

  Brennan picked up the box and Booth took a step toward her, but she shook her head. She had it, and his trying to help would be misconstrued. She would believe that he was thinking he was stronger, and should therefore carry the box for her.

  Okay, so she wouldn’t really be misconstruing his thought process — just the reasoning behind it. Wasn’t that he thought she was weak: he just liked to help people, even science squints who felt they had to prove their worth every second.

  Dr. Wu handed him her card. “If you have any questions, Special Agent Booth, anything at all, feel free to give me a call.”

  He accepted the card, the doctor’s hand brushing against his.

  He smiled at her, grateful for any friendly gesture from an attractive female.

  She returned the smile. “Call anytime. My home number is on the back.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  Brennan, fairly testy, said, “This box isn’t getting any lighter….”

  Shaking hands with Dr. Wu, Booth said, “Thank you for everything. The Field’s been most hospitable.”

  “Our pleasure,” she said, but to Booth it sounded like My pleasure….

  Over by the door, Brennan let out a little harumph and Booth ran to get the door for her. His mind was whirling with what was correct to do for a modern female, and what wasn’t….

  At the car, he opened the trunk and she set the box inside. She got in on the passenger side before he had time to work out whether he should risk getting it for her or not.

  Soon Booth was battling his way through Lake Shore Drive traffic on his way back to her hotel. The ride passed in relative silence, driver and passenger lost in thought, Booth mulling how the hell he was going to track down a killer about whom he knew next to nothing….

  Parking the Crown Vic under the hotel’s canopy, Booth got out, flashed his ID at the valet, and said, “Official business. Leave it here. We’ll be back soon.”

  The valet, realizing there would be no tip, nodded at Booth and looked away.

  As he followed Brennan up to her room, Booth sifted the pieces of what he knew.

  The suspect who had delivered the skeleton was white. Was he the killer or just an accomplice?

  Brennan and Dr. Wu thought they had parts of four people — all victims of the killer?

  One of the source bodies for the skeleton had been dead for over forty years — an old victim, or a piece robbed from a grave to throw them off?

  As the anthropologist packed her bag, one thing was clear to Booth: he had no shortage of questions… just a surfeit of answers.

  Well, maybe Brennan and her squint squad could come up with something back at the Jeffersonian. He felt tired, bone-tired (appropriately enough), and it didn’t look like he’d be catching up on sleep anytime soon.

  Brennan checked out and they put her duffel in the trunk alongside the box of bones, and Booth got them on the expressway toward O’Hare Airport.

  After a few minutes of silence, Brennan asked, “Are you going to ask her out?”

  The question took Booth by surprise. “Ask who what?”

  Though she said nothing, he could fe
el her eyes on him. He took it as long as he could before he turned to look at her.

  “Dr. Wu,” Brennan said. Her voice and her face were expressionless, her tone equally blank. “I know I’m not the best person at picking up signals, but even I could tell she was practically throwing herself at you.”

  “Well, if so, I missed it,” Booth claimed, not even convincing himself…

  …although it didn’t feel bad, having Brennan corroborate his theory.

  Brennan stared straight ahead.

  “I dunno.” He shrugged. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should give her a call.”

  “I’m right?” Brennan rolled her eyes, and then seemed to burrow down farther in her seat.

  “Want to get something to eat?” Booth asked her. “There’s time before your flight.”

  “Not hungry.”

  They lapsed back into silence.

  Booth was entering the serpentine access to the airport, when his cell phone chirped in his pocket.

  “Booth.”

  “Woolfolk. God, I’m glad I caught you.”

  The agent was breathless.

  Booth frowned. “What?”

  Booth listened as the other agent spoke.

  When Woolfolk finally stopped, Booth could only manage two words, “Oh Christ.”

  He clicked off and turned to Brennan, who frowned, clearly not liking the lines she’d been reading between.

  “No bones are going on that flight today,” he told her glumly. “Not you… and not that box in the trunk, either….”

  4

  Temperance Brennan’s irritation existed on dual levels — neither one, she knew, particularly rational.

  She wasn’t exactly jealous over Booth’s saying he might call Dr. Jane Wu. That, after all, was none of her business. And why should she care?

  After all, they had no real relationship beyond work, had never dated, never even gone out for a drink together….

  Okay, so the handsome FBI agent in her novel, Bred in the Bone, had borne a greater likeness to Booth than she had intended. In her mind, Booth had been in the mix, the fictional agent a composite of Booth, several other agents, and her imagination.

  When her staff had called her on the character’s being Booth-And-Only-Booth, she had pooh-poohed the idea; but Angela — whose mission was to fix people up with each other and make everybody and everything happy and nice — had jumped all over it, despite Brennan’s protestations.